


The Golden Afternoon

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dubious Ethics, Edited Tags Because Of Spoilers, M/M, Your Daily Dose Of Garden Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6725821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Equius tends to the garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Golden Afternoon

_Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined_  
_In Memory's mystic band,_  
_Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers_  
_Plucked in a far-off land._  
-All in The Golden Afternoon, Lewis Carroll

~!~ 

The weeds are out in full force again.

The fluffy little nuisances clog the air with pollen and spread like green fire. They wouldn’t bother you if not for your matesprit, whose allergies to the weed stuff could prove deadly. It’s why whenever springtime rolls around, you coop him up in the hive towers and surround him only with genetically modified greenery, the sort that will never breed and thus never produce pollen. He doesn’t actually like plants much, and isn’t too cheered by the lack of flowers, but you know it’s good for lowbloods to have some fresh air, which he can’t get with these gosh-darned weeds spreading their hayfever dust everywhere.

You yourself, however, are hale and STRONG, in such a way that the pollen doesn’t cause you so much as a sniffle. You can wander the garden with ease, in your lawn apron and sun hat, uprooting the offending plantlife with your bare hands. It’s actually quite pleasant, listening to the chirping of birds and the hum of insects as you tend to the garden and make it fit for your matesprit, and every day you think to yourself that moving to this far-off planet with him was one of the best decisions you’ve ever made.

Sure, it was a decision made _for_ you, but you’re happy in your exile. You’re free to pursue your personal interests, and your matesprit gets to live a long, full life. Both of you get your lives, away from the demands and constraints of the Empire. You don’t know why you put so much of your worth in those demands in your youth.

The sun here is so dim that you have no trouble wandering around in the daylight, its heat barely a whisper across your skin, but you’ve been working long and hard into the day and you think it’s about time to take a break. You gather your plucked weeds and toss them into the compost heap, churning the loamy soil with a device you’ve come up with yourself. It’s simple, really; you turn the crank and the wheels turn with it, shredding and mulching anything that gets between the teeth and dumping it into the pit.

You hear the rustle of grass behind you and turn around. Your matesprit stands behind you, red eyes aglow in the low light. He doesn’t look a night over thirteen and never will, and sometimes you have to marvel at the fact; at the way the light glints on his hair and pools in his glassy eyes, the give of skin that will never bruise. He’s a marvel of engineering, if you say so yourself. But still, you worry.

“Karkat,” You begin, wiping dirt off your hands. “I’m not finished weeding the garden. What are you doing out here?”

He holds out a pot to you, with one of the most vivid purple succulents you’ve ever seen, blooming like a sharp-petalled flower. “Ah.” You say, and gently take the pot from his smooth fingers. The succulents are his favourite, and you must admit that you approve of the choice. Like him, they can survive nearly anything, but like him, there are some things even they cannot withstand. “Please go upstairs now.” You implore, and he looks up at you with a slightly petulant quirk of his lips.

Your tone turns just slightly more insistent. “Please, for your health.” You say, and instead of going back upstairs and waiting for you like he has for the past two weeks, he makes a sharp, horrible noise and smacks the pot out of your hands. It’s thick, sturdy clay and doesn’t shatter, but the succulent and the sandy soil tumble out of it, and you’re too surprised by the suddenness of it to stop him.

You stoop down to pick up the remains and he crushes the succulent under his heel. Wet, pulpy plant stuff squirts out underneath as he grinds it into the dirt.

You sigh and, as gently as you can, lift his foot from the ruined leaves, looking up at him wearily as you wipe sweat from your brow, your lips tilting down into a frown. “What is this about now?”

He points to his empty throat, slender and hollow and unable to speak, and then to his chest where an organic heart would be but is now nothing but clockwork and your own blood. His eyes aren’t just reflecting the light you realize, they’re luminescent; warning signs that he needs to calm down. You only have so many spare parts to use before he breaks down beyond repair. You get back up to your full height and cross your arms, standing firm. “Karkat, please stop this nonsense. This display only reinforces my reasons for taking away your vocalizations. If you’re going to throw tantrums, then I know for certain that you’re going to burn out your voice box. I’m only doing this because I care.”

He pulls at your shirt, trying in vain to pull you down to his height. It’s honestly a sad display; you’d given him a few more inches than he had in his original body, but unable to grow, you soon surpassed him, soon got back to the height difference you had when you first set foot on this planet. The strength you’d built into him is considerable, but nothing to yours as the sweeps went on.

You put your hands on his wrists, carefully peeling him off of you. He won’t look you in the eye, but you note that there’s no red glow on his cheekbones, so you’ll count that as a victory. “Please go upstairs now. I don’t want to have to carry you.” You tell him, and he yanks his hands out from your grip, glaring balefully at you. He doesn’t stomp like a wriggler, but there’s a tension in his back and shoulders that you notice as he walks. Not towards the hive, either. You purse your lips and follow him.

You find him under a bower of massive, red blooms, with greenery trailing down around him in looping tendrils. Mandevillas, you recall, chosen for the hue that so very nearly matched his blood, but he’s not concerned with the flowers. He stands before a patch of slightly raised earth, the grass having long grown over it. You note that it needs trimming, and the flowers you’d left in the vase at the end need replacing again. His fingers are clenched so hard that you’re certain you’ll need to replace the rubber of his palms.

As much as you would want to be silent for him, silent in this place, there is still the rustle of grass as you walk behind him. He turns to face you, and his expression is more melancholy than baleful and makes something squeeze tight and aching in your chest. He brushes off your hand when you place it on his shoulder, and walks deeper into the shade and towards his own grave.

His fingers trace over the carved, mossy stone you’d placed at the head. You couldn’t bear to mark it with his name, instead etching his likeness into it with the same care and meticulous attention to detail you’d given the face he wears now. It’s not much like he is now, too somber and serene, like one asleep, but he’d never been so peaceful even in his sleep.

When he walks back to you, he wipes his hands under your eyes, leaves tracks of filth that you can’t bring yourself to brush away, and when his fingers come away wet and blue, you realize you’ve been crying. You take his wrist and nuzzle into his scratchy palm.

“I’m not ready to let go.” You say. “Not yet. You have to stay with me until I am.” He curls his fingers in your hair and strokes the lines of your cheekbones, like he’d traced the lines of your etching. The look on his face is grim as you go on. “Please, I promise I will make this up to you. You _are_ alive, it doesn’t matter that you’re not what you once were. Neither of us are what we once were.”

He looks to the grave again and his shoulders sag, and you know he’s going to acquiesce. You press as tender a kiss as you can manage to the cool curve of his neck, and he lets you.

“Come now.” You say, and lead him away from where he was once buried, back to the hive, back to life, back to where you can pretend, and plan to never let him go again.


End file.
